


Celebration

by Occasus



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Turkstober2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occasus/pseuds/Occasus
Summary: He mingles. Sips champagne slowly despite the lingering nausea. He endures the attentions of Midgar’s affluent upper crust, maintaining his frosty demeanor as he engages in conversation about nothing and everything, from his father, to his own “business dealings,” to the future of Midgar, and the designer of his suit.Young suitors from powerful families flock to him, men and women alike kissing his cheeks, flashing him loaded smiles, leaning on his arm and sayingoh, Rufus, darling! Happy birthday!As if they know him. As if they could everhopeto know him beneath the veneer.*   *       *     *     *     *     *    *      *     *     *In which Rufus Shinra sneaks away from his own birthday party to spend some quality time with the only person in the room that matters to him.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	Celebration

Sixty stories above the plate, the venue glitters like a star in the sky. Rufus was certain his father had spared no expense for the celebration, using the occasion as an opportunity to flaunt his wealth and power. No doubt, social parasites would flock to the event like scavengers to carrion. 

Twenty-nine. Rufus Shinra was twenty-nine years old. His birthday pulled him momentarily from the extended house arrest that had been implemented since his betrayal. He had spent the better part of three years locked away in his luxury penthouse like a princess in a tower. 

In truth, the date of his birth held little significance to his father, but it was an excuse to make a spectacle, to gather all of Midgar’s money and influence under one roof, and bask in the adoration of the upper class. It was as much a publicity stunt as it was an opportunity for dear-old-dad to dangle in Rufus’ face all he stood to lose should he slip up again. 

And didn’t it make his father look so admirable, to throw an extravagant party for his wayward son? 

Rufus felt ill before he even touched down. He would be a show pony at the event, another pretty object to parade about amidst all the other things within his father’s control. 

The only saving grace waited for him on the rooftop. His loyal Turk, standing straight and severe with his hands clasped behind his back. After so many lonely weeks of communicating only briefly through burner phones, the sight of him sends a thrill through Rufus. 

It could have been any one of the fleet of security guards waiting to escort him inside. It could have easily been another Turk, they were all highly trained and more than qualified for the job of personal security—all secretly loyal to Rufus, and Rufus alone. 

But no, the good Director had made this his own personal task. 

Rufus smiles to himself. Perhaps Tseng has missed him, too. 

“Good evening, sir.” Gusts from the chopper blades whip Tseng’s dark hair around his shoulders. He offers Rufus a gloved hand as he steps down from the aircraft, a simple gesture that appears to be nothing more than courtesy to anyone looking on, but when Rufus slips his hand into that firm, leather grasp, electricity courses up his arm. 

It’s the first time he’s touched his Turk in weeks. 

“Tseng,” he acknowledges coolly, letting his gaze rake down the length of Tseng’s body as he brushes past him.

Tseng falls silently into step behind him at a respectful distance. Rufus feels his dark gaze on his back, and is suddenly hyperaware of the shift of his shoulders and hips beneath his suit. 

At the rooftop entrance, Tseng swipes a sleek black card to disengage the encrypted security lock, then holds the door open for Rufus to enter first. 

The ballroom beyond is alive with chatter, laughter, and dancing. Crystal chandeliers twinkle overhead while sleek tuxedos and exquisite gowns twirl along to the music played by a live jazz band. Midgar’s elite circle like vultures amidst the glamor, vying for attention, trying to make an impression. Predators sizing one another up. 

Rufus’ arrival swivels the heads of the entire room, momentarily hushing the din. His father may be the alpha-male orchestrating the event, but Rufus himself is the main attraction. Public appearances by the Vice President have been few and far between since his “extended business trip” began, and the whole city is eager for a taste of the company heir. 

Rufus swallows the bile in the back of his throat. It will be a long night. But he has spent a lifetime blending with socialites, feigning civility, and like a switch being flipped, he puts on his best fake smile, sliding with practiced ease into glacial charm as his name is called and cameras flash. 

The event may be in his namesake, but he is not here to be celebrated. He is here to be observed, scrutinized. Objectified. He is the face of the future, the Shinra of tomorrow, Midgar’s bluest blood with his prosperous father’s handsome features wrapped around his tragic mother's delicate bone structure. 

He is here to be reminded of his place—where he came from, and who controls the trajectory of his future. 

_Very well._

By now, Rufus is accustomed to playing his part. Biding his time. 

He mingles. Sips champagne slowly despite the lingering nausea. He endures the attentions of Midgar’s affluent upper crust, maintaining his frosty demeanor as he engages in conversation about nothing and everything, from his father, to his own “business dealings,” to the future of Midgar, and the designer of his suit. 

Young suitors from powerful families flock to him, men and women alike kissing his cheeks, flashing him loaded smiles, leaning on his arm and saying _oh, Rufus, darling! Happy birthday!_

As if they know him. As if they could ever _hope_ to know him beneath the veneer. Scavengers, the lot of them. 

There’s a woman chattering nonsense in his ear, pressing her breasts against him and resting her hand on his bicep. His skin crawls beneath the unfamiliar touch, the sickly-sweet smell of her perfume cloying. She is one of many competing for his attention, hoping to dip into his pockets, to warm his bed for the night—a conquest only one person in the room could boast of. 

Rufus shifts his gaze across the wide space, scanning the crowd of brightly colored gowns and coiffed heads. Searching. 

He finds him near the back, clinging to the shadows. 

Tseng’s sharp eyes stare back, his expression unreadable. 

Somehow, his presence alone is grounding. 

_Soon,_ Rufus thinks, and turns to his current admirer, excusing himself politely, detangling his arm from her grasp. 

He spends another half hour fighting off the vultures, avoiding his father and his circle of executives. All except Scarlett, who is unavoidable, and makes a point to seek him out personally, stepping into his space. Rufus is no stranger to her guiles, knows exactly how she earned her position and how she intends to maintain it going forward. 

Not that it will do her any good. Rufus is _not_ his father. 

“What a nice surprise it is to see you back in Midgar, dear Rufus.” Her red lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Happy birthday.” 

“The pleasure is mine.” Rufus smiles. He needs to remain in the good graces of the executives, needs their loyalty—for now. “Thank you.” 

Tuesti was by far the easiest of the group to deal with, cordial and droll as he was. Perhaps the only shark in the water with any good intentions. Rufus found it difficult to dislike him. 

When the time came, the president proposed a toast to Rufus, rattling off a string of empty words that Rufus mostly tuned out, false sentiment for the son he had only ever viewed as a petulant brat. Nearly three decades of disappointment, culminating into deeply-rooted animosity between them. 

Not that his father had ever given Rufus a chance to prove himself. He was no closer to his birthright at twenty-nine than he was in his infancy. 

“To the future of Shinra,” his father finishes, raising his glass in Rufus’ direction. His smile is deceptively warm, but his blue eyes are cold. 

The shallow speech means nothing to Rufus, only stoking the embers of his hatred. But it garners applause and adoration from the masses, and wasn’t _that_ the theme of the night. 

He is suddenly exhausted, unable to tolerate any more of the revolting display. He feels his careful facade splintering, his anger threatening to bleed through. 

There is only one thing he wants. 

Again, he finds Tseng’s gaze from across the room. Rufus inclines his head toward the exit, and his Turk knows him well enough to sense his turmoil. On cue, Tseng’s dark suit shrugs away from the wall, disappears into the shadowy edges of the crowd. 

Rufus makes for the door opposite the one he entered from, slipping through the throng and out of the stifling ballroom. The long corridor beyond is dimly lit, restrooms and various anterooms lining the hallway. Towards the end of the hall, there is one door left slightly ajar, and Rufus hurriedly beelines for it before anyone comes looking for him. 

He slips silently into the room, hearing and seeing nothing in the blackness af first, and then Tseng is there, manifesting from the dark. 

Concern knits his thin brows together. “Are you alright, sir? That was an abrupt exit.”

“I’m tired of playing along with my father's game,” Rufus growls, “It’s my birthday, and I’ve spent my only night out in _months_ entertaining Midgar’s parasites. It’s time for me to enjoy something.”

Tseng opens his mouth to speak, but his response doesn’t make it past his lips. 

Rufus grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket and pushes him up against the door, the force of Tseng’s shoulders flattening against the panels slamming it shut. 

For the first time in weeks, Rufus kisses his Turk. There’s nothing gentle about the way their mouths smash together, all tongue and teeth and Rufus’ hands curling into Tseng’s hair. Tseng tastes of sharp mint and fine champagne and everything he has longed for. 

“I’ve missed you,” Rufus says in a rush of breath, Tseng’s lips ghosting along his jaw, tracing a path to his throat. The feel of strong hands settling on his waist leaves Rufus shaking. 

“Tell me you’ve missed me, too,” he whispers. 

“I’ve missed you, sir,” Tseng says against the tender place where Rufus’ pulse flutters wildly. 

“Rufus,” Rufus corrects, “Say my name.”

“Rufus,” Tseng complies, and the sound of his name in that dark, smoky voice sends Rufus’ blood rushing south. He _feels_ Tseng’s lips curve into a wicked smile in the dip of his neck and shoulder. 

He wants to hear him say it again, but refrains from begging. Instead, he reaches between their bodies and palms Tseng’s cock through his finely tailored trousers, and the soft gasp it elicits from his generally stoic lover is everything. 

“I’ve missed this,” Rufus purrs, nuzzling against Tseng’s neck, nipping at his ear, rubbing him to hardness with the heel of his hand. “This is all I’ve thought about, from the moment I saw you on the roof.”

Tseng’s hand smooths down Rufus’ back to settle on the swell of his ass. “We don’t have much time,” he warns, “Your absence will be noticed.”

“Let them find me,” Rufus says, pulling back enough to look Tseng in the eyes, black as pitch in the low light. “Imagine the look on my father’s face. I would love to see it.”

He doesn’t mean it. Should their forbidden affair come to light, it would mean ruin for Tseng. It would be an end to any future Rufus had left. But for his father to know his son was cockstruck for the very man he set to spy upon him so many years ago? That Rufus let one of his father’s own faithful, hired assassins fuck him, a _Wutian_ at that—

Without further delay, Rufus drops gracefully to his knees, reaching for Tseng’s belt. 

Tseng says nothing, but strokes a gloved hand over Rufus’ fair hair in an uncharacteristically tender gesture as Rufus frees his cock.

“I’ve missed your cock,” Rufus murmurs, curling his fingers around the shaft. He pumps him slowly, and Tseng sighs, his head tipping back against the door. 

“I’ve thought of you,” Rufus continues, gazing up at his lover’s attempt to control himself, “Every night. Touched myself to the memory of your hands on my waist, your teeth in my shoulder,” He leans in and gives Tseng’s cock a long lick with the flat of his tongue, flicking playfully at the tip. “Your cock inside of me.”

_“Rufus,”_ Tseng shudders, his fingers tightening in Rufus’ hair. He doesn’t push him, but his hand trembles slightly with the effort of holding himself back, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath. 

“Look at me, Tseng.” Rufus commands, and those black eyes are blown with lust when they dart down to meet his own. He finally takes Tseng fully into his mouth, opening his jaw and descending in a maddeningly slow glide until his nose presses into the neat patch of dark hair at the base. 

Tseng lets out another heavy breath, his lips parted and eyes focused on where Rufus kneels between his legs. 

Rufus swallows around him, drawing back and inhaling through his nose before he returns to his task in earnest, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue in the way he knows will pick his lover apart at the seams. 

Tseng has never been one for theatrics, a quiet lover who gives himself over to the occasional throaty groan or breathy sigh, but Rufus revels in every soft sound he draws out of him. 

He watches the flex of muscle in Tseng’s lower abdomen, the way his thighs twitch, his free hand curling into a tight fist against the door. 

Rufus pulls off with a lewd sound, smirking up at him and licking his lips, “Stop holding back.”

Panting through kiss-swollen lips, Tseng looks debauched. He nods once, before wordlessly guiding Rufus back onto his cock by the hand in his hair. Rufus enthusiastically takes him into his throat, and this time, Tseng takes control, rolling his hips to meet him stroke for stroke, gripping a handful of blond hair hard enough to prick tears to the corners of Rufus eyes.

Rufus lets his Turk fuck his face, delighting in the way Tseng’s cock bumps the back of his throat, the series of muted grunts above him. 

After a moment of punishing rhythm, Tseng’s hips stutter. 

“Rufus—” he warns, breath hitched, the name is more air than voice. 

Rufus rolls his eyes up to meet Tseng’s in wordless permission. Assuring him he wants it. 

Tseng comes down Rufus’ throat with a strangled sound, grasping his jaw, curling around him, cupping the back of his head to hold him fast between his legs while he rides out his release. 

Rufus prides himself in his ability to make Tseng come undone so quickly, swallowing around him and sliding his lips off cleanly so as not to soil Tseng’s fine black suit. 

When he straightens, Tseng kisses him, stroking into his mouth to taste himself. 

“Happy birthday,” He whispers against Rufus’ lips. 

“Take me home,” Rufus murmurs back in their shared breath. 

Tseng hesitates, ever dutiful. “Your father won’t be pleased.” 

No, he won’t. Leaving his own party without a word will only be more tinder for his father’s ire. But Rufus doesn’t care. He played his part for the night, made his appearance in Midgar and schmoozed with the elite. It will have to be enough, he can’t take another second pretending he wants to be there. 

“My father hates me without provocation, this surely can’t tarnish his view of me further.” Rufus says, thoughtfully fingering Tseng’s silk tie. “Take me home.” 

Tseng’s lips set into a hard line of disapproval, but he doesn’t protest. “Very well, I’ll call you an escort to—”

“No,” Rufus shakes his head, “I want you to take me.” 

He senses Tseng’s inner struggle by the way his eyes shift away, his professional obligations wrestling with the temptation Rufus presents to him. In the end, he acquiesces, smoothing the front of his suit jacket back into presentable order and following Rufus down the hallway towards the emergency exit.

They slink away into the night, leaving the party behind. Rufus inhales crisp air on the windy rooftop and wills his head to clear. He looks back towards the glow of the ballroom, feeling as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

“Are you certain you want to go?” Tseng asks one last time. Standing there in his sharp black suit, he is beautiful in a dangerous way. Light emanating from the windows behind Rufus falls across the hard angle of his Tseng’s jaw, catching in his dark eyes and turning them to rich ochre. All of Midgar sprawls out behind him, and Rufus thinks this view is all he could ever want. 

His Turk. His city. 

“Yes,” Rufus says, and brushes past Tseng to board, “I’m sure.” 

They are silent as the chopper ascends, Midgar growing smaller and dimmer below. Rufus knows a call will come soon, words full of anger spat at him. How he is now and will always be a disappointment. 

The disfavor his father holds for him no longer stings like it once did. 

“It will be different, Tseng.” He says quietly, staring out the window. “Someday.” 

Tseng doesn’t reply, and after a moment, Rufus turns to look at him. “Will you stay tonight?” 

He can’t bear the thought of undressing in the dark silence of his empty penthouse, crawling into his cold bed alone. To be isolated again for gods know how many more months. 

“You know I can’t.” 

“Just until morning. Please.” 

Tseng sighs softly through his nose. He isn’t annoyed, he is torn. The look he casts Rufus holds something achingly similar to sympathy before he blinks, and the mask is back in place. 

“Alright,” He finally says. “Just until morning. I’ll leave before sunrise.” 

Later, Rufus lets Tseng undress him in his bedroom, standing still and quiet while Tseng kisses reverently down his neck, his collarbone, sliding the shirt from his narrow shoulders. And in turn, Rufus strips his Turk of his suit, uncovering the scars beneath, the marks of a man who sold his soul to Shinra. Now a traitor, biting the very hand that fed him to swear his allegiance—his very life—to Rufus. 

Rufus presses his mouth to a rough patch on Tseng’s shoulder, lingering over the long-healed injury. 

“No more,” he whispers, “When Midgar is mine, you won’t have to bleed in the name of Shinra anymore.” 

Tseng chuckles softly in the dark, brushing the hair back from Rufus’ face. “I will always bleed in the name of Shinra.” He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to Rufus’ mouth. “But it will be an honor to bleed for a different Shinra, soon.” 

Rufus smiles against his lover’s mouth. “Soon,” he vows.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I'd finish Turktober's Day 14 prompt before the end of Day 14, and I managed to finish the final edit at 9:21 pm. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed this one! 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter, at my main [here](https://twitter.com/occasusH), and my FF side Twitter where I frequently scream about the Turks [here](https://twitter.com/OCCVII).


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